


How Many More Times

by kijikun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-13
Updated: 2011-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 17:25:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/151683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijikun/pseuds/kijikun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life is a endless collection of motel rooms with the sound of his brother sleeping in the next bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Many More Times

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during the events of Mystery Spot

A impossibly hot tongue works its way deeper into Sam's body. Sam fights to stay still as he kneels on his bed, knees spread wide, though he always loses the fight. The sheets are scratchy and rough under Sam's knees and hands. He doesn't remember -- he can't remember sheets that didn't scratch, beds without springs pressing in his back. His life is a endless collection of motel rooms with the sound of his brother sleeping in the next bed.

He makes a high sound in the back of his throat that he can't stop completely. Dean, _oh god_ Dean. Dean's bed is empty. Is always empty. Always. Always. Because it's always Tuesday and Dean is always dead. And --

The tongue inside him curls and jabs forwards. A sharp jab of pleasure follows and Sam rocks back into it mindlessly. He presses his face hard into the pillow but his moan still echoes in his own ears.

"Stop thinking so loud," the Trickster tells him, presses a biting kiss to the base of his spine. A finger presses past already loose muscles into Sam, it's too little then too much as if the size of the finger is changing. And fuck, maybe it is.

Sam lifts his head just slightly from the pillow, trying to still his traitorous body that presses back on that changing finger. "Fuck you, Trickster."

The Trickster laughs, low and warm. "I'd much rather fuck you, Sammy," he says, crooking his finger inside Sam.

Sam's breath catches in his throat. "Don't call me that," Sam hisses, his voice more wrecked than he'd like it it be. He hates that he wants this, that he needs this, that he's been letting this happen for so long now. His muscles feel more shaky than they should, like he's just run ten miles. Sam tightens his fingers in the coarse sheets as the Trickster pushes a second finger in with the first.

The fingers curl and spread, over and over again. Sam moves with it, let's the pleasure spark up his spine and pool his stomach. He's hard and leaking, but he refuses to press down into the sheets. The Trickster won't let him come until he wants him too anyways. Always makes Sam ask for it, beg for it.

"But you like it," the Trickster whispers against his skin, biting the center of his back. "You like the illusion of affection."

"No," Sam grits out on the edge of something that isn't a sob. There are three fingers pressed up inside him now, fucking him, working him open. He doesn't need so much prep -- not now, not after so many Tuesdays. Sam can't remember when this started. Every morning he wakes up and it's Tuesday, and every morning he wakes up with sore, trembling muscles, wet and well fucked.

Sam arches back, pushing the Trickster's fingers deeper.

The Trickster is raining bites intermixed with kisses across Sam's back and shoulders. Every now and then his tongue traces and curls across Sam's skin, swirls and circles and straight lines, that leaves Sam trembling and gasping almost as hard as the fingers buried deep in him.

"You should see yourself," the Trickster mummers into his skin. "So pretty, so needy, so _giving_. So many dark things want inside you. But they can't have you."

Sam shudders, his teeth clicking together painfully. "Please." It comes out messy and desperate. He wants the mindlessness, the pleasure, the little bits of tenderness the Trickster gives him and he wants tonight over, and it jumbles together into a need that's burrowed into his veins and taken seat in his heart.

He doesn't have to ask again, that one please, that single bit of begging gets him what he wants. The Trickster's fingers slide free and his tongue swipes over Sam's stretched open hole only once before he's straightening behind Sam. "Since you asked nicely," the Trickster croons, praises. As if it's something he's trying to teach Sam, but it slips away and all Sam can focus on is the Trickster's dick pressing into him.

One slow steady stretch that fills Sam all the way up. It leaves Sam without air, without thought. He arches his back, throws his head back against his shoulders. "Oh go--"

The Trickster's fingers press against his lips. "Let's not tempt fate with causal blasphemy, hey?" His thumb drags against Sam's bottom lip almost affectionately. Then he settles a hand on the back of Sam's neck and pulls very slowly out.

Sam makes a tight noises against the Trickster's fingers and presses his hips back. It earns him a slow rough chuckle and a hand spanning his hip. It's good, better than it should be. The Trickster sets a slowly, leisurely pace, drawing out then thrusting back in. He holds Sam in place, making him take it, making him deal with each slow slide against his nerve endings. Sam drops down to his forearms and hangs his head, heaving in air like he's starving for it.

He aches between his legs, hard and untouched. But Sam can't pull together enough to even think of moving his hand between his legs. Or to ask for the Trickster's -- not yet. Sam rolls his hips, arches his back, encourages the Trickster to take him faster, harder.

"Something you want?" the Trickster asks, teeth scraping the skin of Sam's shoulder. He snaps his hips hard against Sam, jolting out a low moan. "Ask for it, Sam, you gotta ask for it."

"More," Sam pushes out, past the lump in his throat, past his clenched teeth. "Please."

A kiss is pressed where the Trickster's teeth had been. "Good boy," he praises, then starts to fuck Sam in earnest.

Sam groans and whimpers, and pushes back into each hard thrust. He can't think anything but _please_ and _more_ and _good good good_. Can't do anything or be anything but in his skin, overwhelmed with pleasure. The Trickster's fingers bite into his skin and he groans and praises Sam.

"So good." The Trickster's fingers slide into Sam's hair, taking him apart just a little more. "Like you were made for me." It's rough, and barely human, and Sam's done that. Sam's done that to this creature.

Sam's eyes are wet, his face is wet, but he doesn't care. He rolls with each thrust, pants for it, begs for it, hangs onto the edge by his finger nails. Until he can't. "Please, please, please..."

The hand in his hair slides over his eyes, presses down hard. "Let go." It's a command that Sam's not even sure is in English, but he understands, his body understands.

And Sam's gone. His orgasm rolls over his, tears his part, and ruins him. He keens, babbles between gasped breathes as he comes over his stomach and the sheets. Sam's arms collapse completely and it's only the Trickster's hand on his hip that keeps him from sprawling into a mess on the bed. A few more rough, almost painful thrusts and the Trickster's is making a noise than scrambles Sam's senses, the hand over his eyes presses even harder. The world tumbles over itself and Sam follows it over.

When things straighten themselves and the world steadies, Sam's on his side. The sheets are damp and scratchy under his bare skin, and there's a solid warm against his back.

The Trickster doesn't always stay, and he's always gone when Tuesday starts again. Sam shudders, because, oh god, he can't do this. He can't do another Tuesday.

"Then don't," the Trickster whispers. And Sam doesn't know if he said the words aloud or if Tricksters can read minds. He can't remember. "Ask me to stop."

Sam shakes his head. He's got to stop the cycle himself, stop Dean from dying.

"He won't, Sam." The words are almost kind, and the kiss to his neck is so very soft. "If he doesn't die in this town, he will die soon. You know this. You have to accept it."

"No," Sam hisses. "No. I'll save him."

There's a sigh and another kiss that Sam pushes back into and hates himself for it. "Just -- ask me to stop this, Sam. I won't until you ask me." He slides an arm around Sam's middle, splaying his hand across Sam's stomach.

Sam presses his hand over the Trickster's. "I can't. I can't. I can save him. I'll save him." He closes his eyes. "He can't die."

"Death is only the beginning."

Sam sleeps, and in the morning it's Tuesday.


End file.
